Romania: The Gypsy Baby Biter ( Part One )

This story available with photographs at: http://www.thelifeofanaverageperson.com/


The overwhelming smell of urine greeted me as I stepped off the train in Transylvania, Romania. The stations here were decaying: cracked tile, broken benches and trains disregarding schedules to arrive at their own whim. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for a disappointing experience.

I was wrong.

Amidst the poverty, I found a vibrant people, friendly and honest who loved to help; people proud of their heritage but angry with their government. Those that spoke even three words of English eagerly jumped at the chance to offer assistance, escorting us to our destinations and pushing aside offers of money.

And then, there were the Gypsies.

The Gypsies, or the Roma as they call themselves, have been portrayed as thieves and tricksters throughout history. It was obvious these beliefs still burned in the hearts of the Romanian people and perhaps rightly so. Each time I mentioned the word 'Gypsy', eyes would dart to the side and mouths would tighten. Some showed a combination of pity and disgust. Others were angry the government compensated the gypsies for each child, a practice that encouraged a large brood and provided little incentive for them to progress.

My first encounter with the Gypsies was in Cluj-Napoca and it still wrenches my heart: A young woman on the street, face swollen and clutching her stomach as she backed timidly away from a reeking dark-skinned man. He was shouting, shaking a threatening fist as he advanced. A handful of men watched, almost bored, from a dilapidated shoe repair shop that also sold newspapers, cigarettes and tea. I would never put up with such blatant abuse. Had a man treated me so, I would have promptly chopped his head off. However, it was obvious this woman did not have the right. Ashamed I could not help, I walked away.

After wandering in Cluj-Napoca for an hour, lost and dragging suitcases, we finally stopped at the nearest restaurant and asked for directions to our hotel.

“Too far for you!” The women standing outside shook their heads, clucking, "No walk! We call taxi!"

I hesitated at first. As a rule, I travel cheaply in order to experience more of the world. In addition, the Romanian travel forums warned both taxi drivers and waiters preyed on innocent tourists (situations I never encountered the entire trip). This was a double whammy. However, I was tired after the long train journey so, with a sigh, I agreed.

As we waited for the taxi, the man in charge of the restaurant eagerly pulled out a tourist map. Brushing his customers aside, he enthusiastically began to mark the “must see” sights. His clientele did not mind the wait; instead, they chimed in with opinions, pouring over the map and circling their personal favorites. Everyone was smiling, gesturing broadly and speaking loudly.

Our taxi arrived. The driver was a young, cheerful man named Radu.

“English! I can practice English now!” He smiled, thrilled, running his hand over his shaved head. After loading our luggage, he took off, threading wildly through the traffic at high speeds. A song by Wham began playing on the radio and he pointed to the receiver, “I learn English from listening and watching Tom and Jerry!”

We laughed. We were all Tom fans and agreed he deserved to eat that pesky mouse. I yawned, worn-out, telling him we had been walking since the train station.

“Why?” He asked, clearly confused.

“I love to travel.” I said, “I always try to walk, anything I can do to save money for future adventures. Every drop in the ocean counts.”

He broke into peals of laughter, almost rear-ending the car in front of us. Finally, he said, “In Romania, you are only saving ‘steam’!”

He was right. The entire trip cost less than $3.00.

As Radu drove, he pointed out a medical school, saying Cluj was a college town. I asked him about the Gypsies and education. He was one of the rare few that seemed more sympathetic than anything else. He stated the government encouraged the Gypsies to attend school. Spots in each college were reserved only for them, but few took advantage of it. I wondered if they even knew or understood what that meant.

After settling into our hotel, we hailed another cab back to the historic district. It was a Sunday, only a few restaurants were open. I picked an outside café. There were a variety of dishes on the menu, but as I was soon to discover, most would never be available. Invariably, anything containing cabbage was, and that night, I chose cabbage and noodles.

As I waited for my food, I watched the people on the street. There were a few obvious tourists, stopping to browse the menus and the locals hurrying from the buses, carrying bags. Then, there were the gypsies. They were easily recognizable. Their clothes were stained, their hair and skin dirty. They looked as if they hadn’t bathed in months. If you made eye contact, they came running.

A rail thin boy approached. He couldn’t have been more than 10. His eyes were the most unusual green, his skin tanned and his brown hair pulled back tight in a pony tail. His clothes were filthy. He held his hand out as he passed by, eyes riveted to mine and speaking words I did not understand.

He was followed by a little boy of two, wearing pink crocs and playing with a stick in the gutter. Across the street and a fair distance away, a woman slowly followed. I couldn’t imagine anyone letting a two year old navigate street traffic on their own. Horrified, I held out a few lei to the child. He was well trained. He ran forward and snatched it away.

I had little time to feel pleased, however. Almost immediately, the older boy returned, but he was belligerent, beating his hands on his chest, his brows drawn in a scowl. He began to yell, obviously demanding his share. Even at his tender age, he was intimidating. A little shocked, I quickly pressed some money into his hand, simply to make him go away. He flashed a grin and obliged.

This was enough to interest the mother, seeing her children’s success, she picked up her pace and crossed the street. Adopting a sad expression, she hovered over our table, but always on the alert, looking from side to side as if preparing to run.

“Baby, hospital. Baby, hospital.” She kept repeating. Words I would soon hear from every gypsy woman I encountered.

“No.” I said, shaking my head. I was done distributing money to this particular group and shook my head. After a while, she bobbed her head and joined her children to disappear around the end of the block.

Cluj was interesting; most of it rundown by American standards. Everything was cheap. I wandered through the historic district, eating Kurtoskalacs, the local pastry made of dough twisted on a cylinder, rolled in butter, dipped in cinnamon, and then roasted over coals like marshmallows. I happened upon a small almost Italian looking piazza, complete with statues, pigeons and performing artists, but with peeling paint and graffiti tainted walls.

There were abundant, unsecured wireless networks, so I sat on a bench to see if I could latch onto one. There, I noticed a gypsy couple. The woman was young, but downtrodden, appearing strangely old. The husband was much the same, jiggling the baby on his knee. Both looked very sad.

After awhile, the young woman stood, and as modestly as possible, maneuvered under her skirt to remove her underwear. My shock soon turned to pity as she proceeded to wash it at the public drinking fountain, though her washing was continually interrupted by the local children skipping up to take a drink. Satisfied they were clean, she donned them on again. They were obviously the only pair she had.

The baby was changed next. She had no diaper, but two pairs of pants. The soiled ones were washed in the fountain, and then, they walked away; the father carrying the baby while the mother followed, swinging the wet pants in the air to dry them faster.

Not all Gypsies are destitute, I was told. Some live in villages with televisions and gardens, but that seems to be a precious few. We encountered an interesting group at the local MacDonald’s. They were clean and brightly dressed. The women wore voluminous skirts, glittery tops with dangling gold colored coins and purple kerchiefs on their heads. The men stood at the head of the tables, passing out burgers and fries while watching the game on the flat screen TV.

We observed them for awhile. After eating, they moved outside to beg money from tourists while their green-eyed children rolled cherries like marbles down the wheelchair ramp.

This group was laughing, almost playful and we finally asked to take their pictures.

“Lei.” We said to one of the younger women, holding out a few Romanian bills.

The woman held out five fingers.

“Ok.” We agreed finally, pointing to the camera. “Five Lei.”

She nodded.

We gave her the money, but as soon as she had it in her hand, she giggled. Covering her face with her arm, she ran around the corner. We couldn’t help but laugh. Her companions descended upon us, all playing the same game. As soon as they had a few lei in their hands, they would block their faces and laugh. Eventually, we succeeded, but only because we were crafty, tricking them by holding the cameras away from our faces. They didn’t know we could still take pictures that way.

On the train to Sighisoara, we met a retired schoolteacher, Dania. It was hard to live in Romania, she told us. She used her entire pension simply to pay the monthly heating bills. The average family struggled, and could only afford maybe 1 or 2 children. When those children were grown, they had no future, no choice but to leave the country. Her children lived in Boston. When I asked what she thought of the gypsies, she told me that they had huge families, but most lived in poverty. The children ran wild, wandering and begging on their own to return only to the parents at night.

“They are stuck in the medieval days.” She said, shaking her head, “They marry their children off at age 12. They don’t read and write. They migrate to Italy, Spain and France, but the governments send them back to Romania. They sneak back and it starts all over again.”

“Do they have the opportunity to work?” I asked.

“Of course!” She said, “They can sweep the streets, things like that, but they complain about those jobs.”

It was their culture, she said, they simply did not want to advance.